Page 58 of Borrowed Pain
"He's also the key to understanding how they identify and target victims," I countered. "Without his therapeutic expertise—"
"Without him alive, his expertise is useless." Marcus looked up from his notes. "Rowan, I appreciate your professional investment, but our priority is keeping Miles breathing."
Familiar frustration clawed at my throat. The same institutional thinking buried Lucia's investigation, prioritizing individual safety over systemic justice. "Your priority. Not necessarily his."
"The hell it isn't his," Michael snapped. "Miles doesn't get to vote himself into a coffin because he feels guilty about a client."
"That's not what this is about—"
"Isn't it?" Marcus set down his pen. "You've spent years chasing conspiracies solo. Now you've convinced my brother it's his fight, too. That's not partnership—that's recruitment."
It landed square. My jaw locked. They were reading me like a suspect, looking for psychological motivations beneath my surface behaviors.
James cleared his throat. "From a policy perspective, federal involvement makes sense. We're talking about healthcare fraud and possibly RICO violations. Local law enforcement lacks the appropriate resources for this type of investigation."
"Federal involvement also means federal bureaucracy," I said, trying not to sound desperate. "Jurisdictional disputes and political considerations. By the time they mobilize, our sources will be dead."
"Better than our brother being dead," Matthew said quietly.
I looked around the table—faces united by blood and chosen loyalty focused on keeping Miles safe. It was both beautiful and terrifying, a wall of protection that could easily become a cage.
Alex spoke for the first time since the meal began. "What about a hybrid approach? Federal resources for protection, and an independent, parallel investigation continuing?"
"How do we coordinate that without compromising either effort?" Dorian asked. "If federal agencies are investigating,they'll want complete information sharing. That could expose ongoing private operations."
"What ongoing operations?" Michael's tone sharpened. "Are you telling me you two are planning an active investigation while federal conspirators try to eliminate witnesses?"
I glanced at Miles, who'd been unusually quiet since his mother's arrival. He sat with hands clasped, watching the discussion like he was observing a tennis match.
"We aim to find Patricia Hendricks and Tobias Rook before they disappear permanently," Miles said finally. "Someone needs to recover the evidence they've been gathering."
"That someone would be a career investigator," Marcus insisted. "Not a civilian podcaster and a therapist."
"With all due respect, law enforcement doesn't know what to look for," I said. "I've been an expert witness in the past. They don't understand the therapeutic manipulation and systematic exploitation of trauma survivors."
"Then you consult," Michael said. "You provide expertise to qualified investigators while staying safely in protective custody."
Ma McCabe, who'd been listening with the patience of someone accustomed to managing strong-willed sons, finally spoke. "And what does Miles want?"
The question refocused everyone's attention. Miles straightened and consciously chose to step out of his usual family role—entertainer and pressure valve.
"I want justice for Iris Delacroix," he said quietly. "I want to stop them from destroying more trauma survivors, and I want to do it in a way that honors the trust my clients place in me."
"Which doesn't require putting yourself in the line of fire," Marcus said.
"Doesn't it?" Miles stared back at his oldest brother. "They violated my practice. They turned my therapeutic relationshipsinto surveillance operations. How do I restore that trust by hiding while others try to clean up the mess?"
The pain in his voice was raw.
"Miles," Matthew said gently, "you can't save everyone. Some things are bigger than individual therapy."
"This started with individual therapy. Iris's therapy. Mrs. Kim's. Several others who trusted me to protect their secrets." Miles clenched his hands into fists. "If I step back now, how can I ever sit across from another trauma survivor and promise them a safe atmosphere for talking?"
His question crystallized what I'd been struggling to articulate—the difference between physical safety and professional integrity.
"You rebuild," Dorian said pragmatically. "New office, enhanced security, better screening protocols. You adapt and continue."
"After letting other people fight battles that are fundamentally about therapeutic ethics?" Miles shook his head. "That's not rebuilding—that's hiding in the shadows."
